Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  Thomas was a little offended, for he had worn his best clothes, albeit patched at the elbow and torn at the waist. But, swallowing his pride, he pretended to cringe at being dragged to the fore in such exalted company. Indeed, he did not need to pretend very hard for his heart was beating thunderously at being brought under the King's gaze.

  ‘What's your name, boy?’

  T-Thomas, Your Majesty.’

  The King smiled broadly. ‘How auspicious - he shares your name, de Cantilupe. Thomas will be our Lord for the day.’

  The King performed a low and exaggerated bow before the startled Thomas. His grey beard almost touched the floor as he begged the new Lord to give his first orders. The boy gazed round the room, wondering how he should lead up to what he wanted from Henry. Despite the King's show of obsequiousness, Thomas did not think he would respond well to being treated as a servant, or to being given too outrageous a command too soon. No, he would build up to what Master Falconer wanted him to ask. Thomas pointed an imperious finger at Roger Mortimer.

  ‘You. Fetch me wine, and quickly.’

  The haughty baron was about to protest when he saw that Henry was mightily amused, and, forcing a grin on to his thunderous features, he bowed and left the King's chamber. De Cantilupe cast Thomas a warning glance, for he knew that Mortimer was a resentful man, and did not forget a slight easily. But the student-Lord did not see him, because Henry was leading him towards the heavy, ornate chair that the King of England reserved for himself. He placed Thomas firmly on the throne, and laughed.

  ‘You have clearly given me a lesson in how to handle my unruly barons. Perhaps if I had treated de Montfort as a slave, he would not have risen against me. Now you must have the finest robes we can find - for a Lord cannot be seen to be shabbily dressed.’

  Thomas wriggled with pleasure, almost forgetting what he was about, and his instructions from Master William Falconer.

  Falconer, meanwhile, was in search of a carpenter. He had no proof that it was the original owner of the murderous chisel who had killed the monk, but there was no harm in discovering the man's identity, and seeing if he bore de Askeles a grudge. He began in the north-west quarter of the city, where those who belonged to the carpenters' guild resided. The neat and orderly nature of the houses spoke not only of the skill of those who lived there, but also of the wealth that their work generated. A skilful carpenter was valued and could earn three pence a day, where Falconer's own stipend for lecturing was twelve pence a year. Those who had money - landowners, merchants and princes of the Church - paid well for a skilled artisan. The Prior of St Frideswide was no exception.

  Having no other method than knocking on doors at random, Falconer at first thought he had been lucky to find a carpenter who had worked on the players' stage at the very first house he approached. When he tried another and another and was successful everywhere he went, he realized that the good Prior had employed nearly every tradesman in the city. He showed each man the chisel he had pulled from the body of Brother Adam. Each man, mindful of the implications, denied flatly that the tool was his. Several were eager to show Falconer their bag of tools, and demonstrate that they still possessed a chisel of the very shape and size of the one in Falconer's hands. None had a chisel missing.

  Only when he was about to give up the fruitless search did he glean a useful piece of information. The pinched face of the man at the last house he tried contorted in a sneer as he took the chisel from Falconer's open palm.

  'this is Ralph's.’

  Falconer was excited, but puzzled. ‘How do you know?’

  The man twisted the chisel round in his horny hands and pointed to the shoulder of the metal blade.

  ‘Look here - there's his mark. He didn't trust anyone not to steal his damn tools and marked them all with his initials.’

  Falconer peered closely at the blade - his short-sightedness working to his advantage for once - and saw in the width of the chisel, not on its surface where he might have expected a mark of ownership, a neat R.

  ‘Where might I find this Ralph?’

  ‘Now that's a good question.’

  The answer had brought the regent master not to another well- to-do residence in the carpenters' quarter, but to the hovels that huddled outside South Gate. He stepped with caution along one of the warrens that meandered through the mean shanties which leaned for support one on the other. The scrawny pigs that snuffled through the earth at his feet warned Falconer that he was probably walking through a midden rather than a street. Suspicious eyes peered out from gloomy doorways that often had no greater means of security than a strip of tattered sacking. These people were at the bottom of the social heap, and Falconer wondered why Ralph should be found here. The man who had guided him here had paid grudging tribute to the man's skills as a carpenter. Then why was he in such poor surroundings?

  The pinched-faced carpenter had said that Falconer could find what he sought at the end of this meanest of all alleys. The hovel before him did at least possess a door, though it looked as if it had seen better days on a pigsty before it graced this opening. He tapped gently on it for fear it might collapse. The sound of noisy children behind it was silenced before the door was opened a crack, and a woman's face appeared in the gap. She was attractive, and too fair of face to have been in this stew for long. The other faces Falconer had seen were thin, drawn and wrinkled, all seemingly of advanced years though some must have hidden younger souls. This woman's eyes were swollen as though she had been weeping for a long time, and had but recently ceased. She clearly could not trust her voice to speak without causing a fresh flood of tears, and simply stared at Falconer, a question in her red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘I am looking for a carpenter called Ralph. I was told he lived here.’

  Tears welled in the woman's eyes but no confirmation escaped her lips. She simply turned away from Falconer and disappeared into the gloomy interior, leaving the door ajar. Falconer pushed it open and stepped over the threshold. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he realized the single room that stood behind the unpromising exterior was as neat and tidy as it could possibly be in such straitened circumstances. The furniture was old and worn, but the table remained scrubbed and clean - telling of a woman who strove to maintain some semblance of a former good life.

  ‘If you want to take something in lieu of debt, you will see that there is precious little left.’

  The woman stood at the back of the room, two scared children huddled into the patched gown that hung off her slender frame. They all looked afraid.

  ‘I am not here to take anything from you,’ said Falconer in his gentlest tones. ‘I merely wished to talk to your husband. If you are Ralph's wife, that is.’

  There was a momentary glint of hope in the woman's eyes.

  ‘Have you got some work for him? He is an excellent worker - please don't judge us by these surroundings. This is just . temporary.’

  Falconer sighed. He knew from the pinched-faced man that Ralph had indeed once been a good carpenter, but he was also a good drinker. Lately, his work had got worse and worse as he drank more and more. What little he earned barely paid for his ale now, and he had failed to pay his rent. The consequence had been what Falconer now saw for himself. The woman realized from the regent master's hesitation that he knew her situation, and the optimism drained from her face. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

  ‘You will probably find him drinking away what little the Prior paid him at Kepeharm's inn. Either that or sleeping it off in some midden somewhere. We have not seen him for days.’

  Falconer thanked her courteously and closed the rickety door on the tableau of three destitute souls brought down by one man's weakness. He resolved to remain sober this Christmastide. As he reentered the city through the lofty arch of South Gate, he realized that he had not thought to ask the woman if he could have a look at Ralph's tools. He could at least have verified the other carpenter's claim that the murder weapon had belonged to Ralph. But then the uproar tha
t confronted him on Fish Street drove all such thoughts from his mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  DEVIL: Thou hast brought us all this wicked way With all thy might and pride, Away from bliss that would lust for aye In sorrow ever more here to abide.

  The Fall of Lucifer

  Uproar hardly described it - it had been close to a full- scale riot. As Falconer heard it from Peter Bullock later, it had all begun around midday.

  'they knew Petysance was going to lead a procession around the town showing off that relic, and must have planned it. Though God knows why.’

  The priest of St Aldate's plan was to process his new acquisition - the holy arm-bone of St Eldad - along the High Street, down Shidyerd Street and back to his church past St Frideswide's. This last port of call would seem to have been the prime purpose of the route. The procession was timed to pass St Frideswide's just as most citizens were gathering to find a favourable vantage point for the mystery plays. The procession consisted of several minor members of the clergy who served under Edward Petysance, all clad in their best robes with the gold thread glittering in the watery sun and following the cross that graced St Aldate's altar. Before the bearer of the ornate silver cross strode Petysance himself, clutching to his chest the new metal-bound box that held the relic. The box lay on a white linen sheet that covered his arms so that he did not soil the wood that touched the relic with his bare hands. The effect was dramatic, and many folk were drawn away from the courtyard of St Frideswide's to gawk at the procession as it passed. The smug look on the priest's face at seeing this triumph was soon to be wiped off, however.

  The sequence of events as the procession emerged into Fish Street was confused, but everyone agreed they had first heard Talmudic chants emanating from the upper rooms along the street. At first no one took any notice of this, except to be mildly irritated. The Jews often practised their rituals behind closed doors, and good Christian voices always drowned the chanting out. If not, a judicious stone lobbed through an upper floor window usually had a similar effect. This time it was not to be.

  From what Bullock could make out from those he questioned after the event, several young Jews spilled out from the Scola almost opposite St Aldate's Church and scattered the startled crowd before them. The good peasants of Oxford were more used to giving Jews knocks than receiving them from that quarter, and fell back as the mob of youths advanced down the crowded street. A few jeers were cast at their black-clad backs, but nothing that would occasion the violence that followed.

  Others questioned saw the group of Jews apparently on a collision course with Petysance's procession, and could only gaze in disbelief as the fanatical mob bore down on the clergy and rained blows on them. At the head of the procession, everyone saw Edward Petysance wrestling with one of the youths over the holy relic. Indeed, the bulky box seemed to be the goal of the Jews. The white-faced priest had hold of one end, the Jew the other, the white linen cloth having slipped into the sewage channel that ran at their feet. Two of the Jews grappled with the bearer of the holy cross, while the others rolled on the ground with those who made up the rest of the procession, preventing them from assisting Petysance. For a moment it had appeared that the priest was losing this grotesque tug-of-war, until the unthinkable happened. The cross-bearer could no longer hold the heavy silver cross aloft and beat off the two who attacked him at the same time. He swung the object like a weapon, cracking open the skull of one of his attackers, who staggered off bleeding from his wound. Unfortunately the force of the swing caused the cross to slip from the clergyman's hands and it plunged into the channel of ordure where the linen cloth lay. The defilement of such a sacred object brought a single gasp from the crowd, who until then had stood and watched the extraordinary sight of Jews attacking Christians openly in the street. The cross lay dirtied and broken in the filth.

  With a snarl several men in the crowd leapt to the aid of the clergy. As the Jew who grappled with Petysance hesitated, the priest snatched the box from his grasp and scuttled into the protection of the onlookers. The other Jews looked at their ringleader, then as one made off through a gap in the crowd, blows raining on their backs. All but one made the safety of the Scola, from whose steps Deulegard yelled a warning. 'this is not the end of it. A life for a life.’

  He was dragged in by his comrades and the heavy doors closed abruptly. Too stunned to be aware of the danger he was in, the unfortunate youth whose head was already cracked lay prostrate in the remains of the vegetable stall against which he had fallen, and the anger of those present was assuaged by raining blows upon his helpless form. Aaron, son of Isaac, was dead before Peter Bullock could force his way through the crowd.

  'this will be nothing but trouble for me,’ grumbled the constable. ‘Like it or not, I am paid to protect the Jews. Then they do something like that. This dead youth will be a source of claim and counter-claim for weeks to come.’

  'thoughtless of him to get himself clubbed to death.’ Falconer's response was tart - he still could not accept his friend's disregard for the life of the Jews in their midst, even though it was a dislike shared by most of Christendom. Bullock recognized the uncertain ground on which he was treading, and sought to mollify his comrade.

  ‘At least no one else was hurt. No doubt the Church will demand some reparation in the form of money, and all will be back to normal. The sooner the better as far as I am concerned, though I worry about the threat of further trouble. A life for a life - I wonder what he meant?’ He shrugged his bowed shoulders. ‘Good job the plays are due to start - that diverted a lot of people's attention away from further mayhem. Are you going to watch them?’

  Falconer roused himself from deep thoughts. ‘What? Oh - the plays cycle. Perhaps later. I have other matters to attend to first.’

  The constable knew better than to ask what matters they were. He wanted to go and see the plays, and didn't want to be held up as Falconer expounded fanciful theories implicating the actors' monkey, the Archangel Gabriel, and for all he knew God himself in the recent mayhem and death.

  Falconer was glad that most folk had gone to watch the plays as he swung his long legs over the wall that ran part of the length of Jewry Lane. He bunched his grubby robe up between his thighs and dropped on to the soft earth of the rear yard of the first house on Fish Street. He had learned of this back way into the Fish Street shops from an impoverished student at Aristotle's Hall who supplemented his meagre allowance by stealing from the traders who occupied the ground floors of the houses. Peter Bullock had caught him in the act and brought him to Regent Master Falconer for punishment. The youth had regretted his dishonesty for as long as his back continued to ache. When he had been caught a second time, Falconer had expelled him. No doubt he had ended up as a wandering goliard as many failed or lazy students did, earning a few coins by singing in taverns and at fairs. There were probably several in the entertainers who thronged Oxford at this moment.

  But now Falconer was grateful for the youth's knowledge. If you could get to the back of the shops this way, then you could reach the rear of the Scola. And having assumed the front doors would be firmly closed to all Christians, including himself, Falconer had decided to try their back door. He scrambled over the next stout wooden fence as he made his way along the backs. His feet landed in something soft and warm, and he cursed as the familiar farmyard stench of pig dung rose to his nostrils. His boots were so worn that he did not doubt the ordure was already seeping through the cracks - he would not be rid of the smell for weeks. His weak eyes made out a rusty-coloured hump at the back of the yard - the smell of urine and deep snuffling noises informed him that the depositor of the dung was loose, and probably angry at being disturbed. There was a student legend of a youth who preserved his life when attacked by a wild boar by stuffing his copy of Aristotle in the beast's mouth. The regent master in Falconer had always thought it a waste of a good text. In any case, he did not have a book with him at present, so he could not emulate the deed. He quickly hopped o
ver the next wall, leaving the squeals of the irate pig behind him. Landing awkwardly, he was on his hands and knees when a solemn voice spoke.

  ‘A rather unorthodox arrival, my friend. But then you never take the easy route to your goal, do you?’ The aged Rabbi Jehozadok stood over the crestfallen Falconer, leaning heavily on a stout stick. ‘I would offer a hand to you, but I fear it would be of no assistance.’

  Falconer waved away the apology and got to his feet, attempting to wipe the stains of his journey from his already dowdy robe.

  The old man could barely see Falconer and the state he was in, but his nose told him the full story.

  ‘I see you have encountered our good neighbour - his habits are not of the cleanest.’

  'though I am told they are very intelligent creatures, rabbi.’

  Jehozadok frowned. ‘Hmm. Still, I am sure you have not ... er . dropped in to discuss the merits of swine. No doubt you want to know the reason for today's little incident, though it is truly none of your business.’

  Jehozadok's voice was unusually curt, not at all like his normal measured tones. And he seemed uneasy, casting his unseeing gaze over his shoulder at the stone steps leading to the upper rooms where he lived. Falconer thought he saw a youth hovering in the shadows, but if he did the onlooker was gone before he could screw up his eyes to see more clearly. Jehozadok continued.

  ‘Well, I suppose I should be grateful that you ask why rather than assuming the worst. They were foolish, but the provocation was great. Come, let us talk inside.’ He waved his gnarled hand in a vague invitation. In deference to the old man's finer religious feelings, and his sense of smell, Falconer pulled off his boots, and left them in the yard before assisting the rabbi indoors.

  ‘Release all prisoners?’